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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28734570">Danse Macabre</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/dcepticonn/pseuds/dcepticonn'>dcepticonn</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Transformers - Occulus Occult, Transformers: Rescue Bots</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>M/M, my boy never gets attention</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 12:49:03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,371</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28734570</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/dcepticonn/pseuds/dcepticonn</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Canon/OC, Thaddeus Morocco/Peter Ironkettle (Occulus Occult)</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Preface</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>Please enjoy - and remember, <strong>do not read something you don't think you can handle!<br/>If there's a blacklist item that should be added or was perhaps missed, let me know in the comments<br/>or privately through my <a href="https://dcepticonn.tumblr.com/">Tumblr</a>!<br/>Keep in mind that I WILL NOT be blacklisting triggers specific to one individual (I.E Names),<br/>as this is a public work. If something specific to you in this fic triggers you, simply do not read it.<br/>Please cultivate your own experiences within the Occulus Occult community,<br/>The Transformers community and by extension the whole Internet.</strong></em>
</p><hr/><p>Named for a song by Camille Sainte-Saens, the title means "Dance of Death". This one follows the story of Thaddeus Morocco in flashback-style. I've tried to convey a dark academia type feel to his lore, and I do hope that it's enjoyable. Feedback is appreciated and welcomed.</p><p>There is <a href="https://open.spotify.com/playlist/3ELQXv0Ne9BMOBM1B3ZlwZ">also a playlist for this one</a>, hopefully working to recap his story through song. I wonder if you can pick it out?</p><hr/><p>Blacklist</p><p>
  <em>Part I: The Overture</em>
</p><p>
  <strong> <em>Chapter I: Devil's Trill Sonata</em> </strong>
</p><p>There are no entries to submit.</p><p>
  <em>Part II: The Recitative</em>
</p><p>
  <em> <strong>Chapter II: Carnival of Clockwork</strong> </em>
</p><p>
  <em> <strong>Chapter III: Clockwork Vaudeville</strong> </em>
</p><p>Part III: The Aria</p><p>Part IV: The Chorus</p><p>Part V: The Crescendo</p><p>Un-numbered: Danse Macabre</p><p>Part VI: The Ballet</p><p>Part VII: The Diminuendo</p><p>Part VIII: The Cadence </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Part I: The Overture</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>The prologue.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p></p><div>
  <p>
    <em>On a starred night Prince Lucifer uprose.</em>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <em>Tired of his dark dominion swung the fiend</em>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <em>Above the rolling ball in cloud part screened,</em>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <em>Where sinners hugged their spectre of repose.</em>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <em>Poor prey to his hot fit of pride were those.</em>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <em>And now upon his western wing he leaned,</em>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <em>Now his huge bulk o'er Afric's sands careened,</em>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <em>Now the black planet shadowed Arctic snows.</em>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <em>Soaring through wider zones that pricked his scars</em>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <em>With memory of the old revolt from Awe,</em>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <em>He reached a middle height, and at the stars,</em>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <em>Which are the brain of heaven, he looked, and sank.</em>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <em>Around the ancient track marched, rank on rank,</em>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <em>The army of unalterable law.</em>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <em>~ george meredith, 'lucifer in starlight' ~</em>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <hr/>
  <p>
    <strong>
      <em>Chapter I: Devil's Trill Sonata</em>
    </strong>
  </p>
</div>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Devil's Trill Sonata</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>A rainy walk, a manor, and a secret.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>This is the first chapter.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>     Rain assaulted the cobblestone and thunder growled overhead like a great beast and lightning flicked flashing tongues across rolling gray clouds with wings spread wide like a dragon’s.</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>     He held over his shoulder a dense black parasol given to him by his father before he passed - threaded in the finest florals and arabesques of gold. The rain rolled harmlessly off of its surface, spilling around him in a great canopy. Green eyes sparkled from sunken, gaunt eyes - his complexion as pale as a spectre, and his skin wrinkled and leathery which emphasized the sunkenness of his face.</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>     In his free hand was clasped the brass head of a mahogany cane, carved like a unicorn rearing its great horned head. Another gift from his father.</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>     As was the great, ticking stopwatch that rest in the pocket of his suit, which was new - he had bought it at a tailor’s the week prior.</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>     His silvery hair was down to his shoulders, slicked back haphazardly by the rain. His time was almost up.</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>     Again.</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>     He tilted the brim of his top-hat lower over his eyes and shifted the monocle he wore over his left eye - his bad eye - back in place as he walked nimbly down the street, past shops with their closed doors and fenced windows. Nobody was on the street with him - it was only himself and the rain. </span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>     At the farthest end of the street was his family estate - looming over the shops with its glimmering turrets and shining windows, and the gargoyles perched like eternally watching stone guardians on the corners of the house. </span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
</p><p>
  <span>     He shuffled through puddle and mud to the wrought-iron door poised between stone walls topped in elegant, swirling cast-iron railings. He reached to the side of his pocket, rustling around at a ring of keys - one of which unlocked the manor’s gate.<br/>
    He rose one of the keys to the moon’s light as it peaked between the storm - it sparkled bronze in the silver light, topped in the head of a griffon with eyes of the brightest ruby. With a click it slid into its hole and undid the lock of the gate. He pushed it open with his shoulders, shuffled inside, closed the gate and once more locked it.<br/>
    He made his way up a cobblestone path choked and concealed below dead, brown weeds and pale dry grass that extended over the small lawn.<br/>
    Even the fountain in the middle of the path was dry, the statue that once crowned the top of the fountain having fallen off of its pedestal and onto the earth below. The flowers in the garden hadn’t bloomed for as long as he could remember.<br/>
    Not since his father passed. Even the rain dare not saturate the long-dead lawn.<br/>
    The oak-tree, even though it was the summer, bore no leaves and twisted gnarled branches into the stormy night sky. He and his garden were much the same, he thought.<br/>
    It was 1843, and he aged over sixty, but looked more than ninety. How he had managed to last so long was his little… secret. A marvel of science and technology he was not yet ready to share with the world - his very own Elixir of Youth.<br/>
</span>
</p><p>
  <span>     He hid it away in the basement - alongside another, only a half-completed model hidden under a silky white sheet.</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>     As he shuffled inside he closed his parasol and shook it off, sending glimmering droplets in all directions. He shed his black coat and hung it on the rack beside the door in the dark hall, alongside his hat. </span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>     Cautiously he shuffled down the dark hall, and around a corner, and to the basement, down creaking old stairs to an old cellar.</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>     The room was mainly empty - save for a few pieces of old furniture making themselves into indistinguishable shapes and forms in the dark space. And in the corner, was the only source of light - a glass capsule, about the size of a coffin, lined in the most brilliant silks - and set in its head and base were small contraptions the size and shape of glasses. His secret.</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>     His Apples of Youth.</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>     He shuffled over to the glass casket, opened it, and laid inside. It was already set with a timer for the next few months - once a month, the machine would trigger, and he could only hope that he was inside of it when it did.</span>
  <span></span><br/>

  <span>     He closed his eyes. He was going to be sleeping there tonight, to let the machine… fully serve its function. He drew in a deep breath. Once, twice, three times, and he slept.</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>     He slept, and he did dream.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Part II: The Recitative</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>The Childhood</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p></p><div>
  <p>
    <em>Oh, there are times</em>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <em>When all this fret and tumult that we hear</em>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <em>Do seem more stale than to the sexton’s ear</em>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <em>His own dull chimes.</em>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <em>Ding dong! ding dong!</em>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <em>The world is in a simmer like a sea</em>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <em>Over a pent volcano,—woe is me</em>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <em>All the day long!</em>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <em>From crib to shroud!</em>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <em>Nurse o’er our cradles screameth lullaby,</em>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <em>And friends in boots tramp round us as we die,</em>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <em>Snuffling aloud.</em>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <em>At morning’s call</em>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <em>The small-voiced pug-dog welcomes in the sun,</em>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <em>And flea-bit mongrels, wakening one by one,</em>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <em>Give answer all.</em>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <em>When evening dim</em>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <em>Draws round us, then the lonely caterwaul,</em>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <em>Tart solo, sour duet, and general squall,—</em>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <em>These are our hymn.</em>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <em>Women, with tongues</em>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <em>Like polar needles, ever on the jar;</em>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <em>Men, plugless word-spouts, whose deep fountains are</em>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <em>Within their lungs.</em>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <em>Children, with drums</em>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <em>Strapped round them by the fond paternal ass;</em>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <em>Peripatetics with a blade of grass</em>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <em>Between their thumbs.</em>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <em>Vagrants, whose arts</em>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <em>Have caged some devil in their mad machine,</em>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <em>Which grinding, squeaks, with husky groans between,</em>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <em>Come out by starts.</em>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <em>Cockneys that kill</em>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <em>Thin horses of a Sunday,—men, with clams,</em>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <em>Hoarse as young bisons roaring for their dams</em>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <em>From hill to hill.</em>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <em>Soldiers, with guns,</em>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <em>Making a nuisance of the blessed air,</em>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <em>Child-crying bellman, children in despair,</em>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <em>Screeching for buns.</em>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <em>Storms, thunders, waves!</em>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <em>Howl, crash, and bellow till ye get your fill;</em>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <em>Ye sometimes rest; men never can be still</em>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <em>But in their graves.</em>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <em>~ daily trials by a sensitive man, oliver wendell ~</em>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <hr/>
  <p>II: Carnival of Clockwork</p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>III: Clockwork Vaudeville</p>
</div>
  </div></div>
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